Cry Havoc
by Ackradin
Summary: SuperLock Demon!Sherlock origin story. Johnlock undertones. Before Sherlock Holmes came to be, he was something else entirely. Barely the shadow of a man, too perfect a specimen for a demon. He belongs nowhere, but finds a home in the oddest of places.
1. Chapter 1

Anketil Cardwell was born in 1588 in Lancaster, England, to a young mother who married for the social prestige and a father who was too dim-witted to realize the only thing he had going for him was his last name. He had four siblings, of which only one lived past childhood- an older brother who aspired to great things and only pretended to play along with social niceties in order to achieve his ambitions. All seemed to agree that Anketil was not a pleasant child. He cared nothing for politeness or etiquette and in fact found it difficult to tolerate the company of people whom he considered to be intensely dull and unintelligent. He was abrasive and standoffish, and had a tendency to say just the thing to make himself hated by anyone who braved conversation with him. By the time he was considered a young man, Anketil was isolated, unanimously disliked and far too intelligent for the world that he found himself in.

As a child, he had been small, pale and sickly and his mother had assumed he wouldn't see more than four winters. When he got older, she'd wished he hadn't.

As a young man, Anketil was tall and lean, with striking if not unusual features though still as pale as death itself. His parents had hoped that a lady of social standing might be taken in by his appearance, but all who felt a fancy towards him were quickly disenchanted by his ability to all at once know their every flaw, even ones that they themselves didn't know they possessed.

Despite being forced to attend many a social outing, the keen-sensed, perceptive young man spent much of his time off to the side, observing from a distance people as if they were a race alien to him. For all his observations, he understood them in every way but how to relate to them. It was no big loss to his mind, for he rather felt that were he able to relate to these boring creatures that lived their boring lives, he might find himself as insufferable as the rest of them.

By the time young Anketil was able to form an opinion of his own, he was of the thought that he had not the time for God or religion or silly folktales or bedtime stories. Rather, his thoughts consisted invariably of logic and data, the gathering of information and understanding of the world in an irrefutable manner. It was to no small irony that religion and folklore would be the death of him.

When he was fourteen years of age, the Cardwell family moved to an area in Lancaster called Pendle Hill, where the land sloped and slipped and Anketil found it just as dull as every other place he'd been. He went to school, not because they had anything of value to teach him, but because neither his mother nor his various nannies knew what to do with him. He went to church, not because he believed but because his brother would dispose of his experiments if he did not. Anketil found himself going through the motions of human existence without feeling any honest inclination to do so. He did not care for his mother and father, just as they did not care for him. He tolerated his brother if only for the fact that he was slightly more intelligent than the average man, but could not understand the need to carry out social interaction as his brother did, so in that they were at odds. In truth, he did not love nor was he loved by anyone and in his mind he was better for it. He was disconnected from the world, felt no attachment to it, nor to himself. One of his nannies had once claimed that he was possessed, that he had the Devil in him and that they should call for a preacher man to lay waste to the demon which had taken hold of his soul and pushed God from his heart. Though his mother was inclined to agree, she would not hear of the scandal such a thing might cause and the nanny was dismissed.

As it was, the youngest Cardwell was content with a solitary life. He kept to his room and his experiments and his brother continued the running of the household and allowed him his curious ways. He kept an opium habit when the monotony of human life became too much, and snuff for all the times in between.

Just before Anketil reached twenty four years, a witch hunt fever ran rampant through the town. The poison of fear spread like a disease and neighbours murdered and condemned each other, pointing fingers in the name of the Lord.

There was one particular man, a Lord Ingleby, who had taken a strong dislike toward the young Cardwell after he has easily remarked how, judging by the mud on Ingleby's boots and the stain on his coat his mistress was keeping him as busy as his fiancée, thus thoroughly defaming him and robbing him of a beneficial marriage. It was Ingleby who, on a rainy night came with him a wooden rod in hand and found Anketil wandering the streets in the rain as he was known to do, gathering information that was vital to no one but him. Ingleby came upon him crouched in an alley, heedless of the rain and keenly watching the water flow into the cobbled street. Absorbed as he was, Anketil did not hear the man approach him from behind. The wooden rod collided solidly with the back of the young man's head, the force of the blow sending him to the ground, face cracking into the mud and stone.

"Witch!" the man spat out as he reared his arm back and swung again, crushing the young man's face into the ground. "Using Satan's magic," another hit, "You ruined me!" then another. Ingleby kicked him in the side pushing him onto his back. Anketil's face was crushed and bloody, he could no longer breathe through his nose and his eyes- oh, always so necessary to use his eyes- could see only white spots and a haziness of the rain. His head lolled on the ground, blood pooling from his head. Ingleby leaned over him, raising the rod up again. "You brought this upon yourself," he hissed out and he brought down the final, heaving blow. Anketil's skull shattered against the ground and all he could see was a blinding white. He tried to make himself breathe, blink, move, but blood clogged his throat and seeped from his head. In his mind's eye he could see his blood mix with the rain water, knew where it would flow to, where it would wash away.

The papers will call him a witch, a man who used dark magic to torment his fellow man, for surely the things that he knew could have only come from the Devil whispering in his ear.

As his body fought against death, Anketil felt as though his mind were separating itself from the rest of him, this frail vessel that housed him. He felt that he were lifting, rising up, and then all at once sucked down into depths unknown.

He died alone in a muddy alleyway, loved and mourned by no one.

When the young Cardwell became aware of himself again, he felt as though he were being pulled every way possible, that he was being ripped apart. He hung, suspended by hooks that cinched into bone and burned red hot. Slowly, he was torn into pieces. Once he had experienced the agony of feeling himself split from his core, he was put together as if by magic and pulled apart all over again. The process repeated itself for decades, sometimes the method changed, but the end result was always the same.

Then, when Anketil had become so muted in the experience he no longer screamed, simply waited for the final pull, a dark figure with yellow eyes came to him and gave him a choice: he can come down from the hooks and inflict the agony upon other souls, or they can expose him to a new level of torture.

Anketil had never much cared for others when he was alive. He cared for them even less now that he was dead.

When he was let down from the hooks, Anketil had been in Hell for forty years. When he picked up his first blade, it was the beginning of a career that would span centuries.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** This is the first time I've done even a small amount of research for a story. In 1612 a witch hunt did occur in the Pendle Hill area, but Anketil Cardwell (and Lord Ingleby) are completely made up though I tried to find names in usage at the time.

I have in my mind my own imaginings of how Sherlock came to be a demon- or a demon came to be Sherlock.

I intend for this to be three, maybe four parts (my first multi-chapter!) so I hope you enjoy!


	2. Chapter 2

**Warnings:** Brief mention of torture.

**Disclaimer:** Sherlock and Supernatural do not belong to me. No copyright infringement intended.

**Chapter 2**

Anketil had never before wielded a blade for any purpose other than dissection for his experiments, and the bodies he had taken it to were decidedly dead. These bodies too were dead, he supposed, but that didn't stop them from screaming and bleeding and convulsing as if life still pumped through their veins, feeling it more intensely than any living being could comprehend. He was well versed in human anatomy, vital to data he had collected. He knew where every muscle and vein was. He knew where he could stab a man and kill him instantly. He knew where he could stab a man to make him bleed out so slowly he can feel his own life drain away. He knew how to make a man's lung fill with blood and how to scalp the skin from a man's head. In practice, he knew all these things. As pale hands felt the weight of the knife, gingerly fingered the jagged edge that would tear and pull at wretched skin, he considered all the little details and subtleties that he had accrued in his lifetime about the vulnerability of the human body, of soft flesh.

Knowing was one thing. Knowing what could cause such torment was rather different to _implementing_ such knowledge, being the cause of such terror.

Flexing his fingers around the hilt of the knife, he wondered if such a triviality as morals and human decency should deter him, make him blanche at the mere thought of what he was undoubtedly about to do. To him, however, survival instincts were impressing far more on his conscious- the desire to escape torment himself infinitely outweighed any fleeting notion he may have had about supposed morality.

His eyes flickered to the form of a young girl who was hanging suspended before him. Thick, jagged meat hooks pierced her at seemingly every available surface of her skin. She was pulled taunt, skin and body stretched every which way. The metal of the hooks burned hot, boiling the blood that simmered beneath. She wailed and moaned terribly.

_Curious_, he observed, _that even in death we should take in such a fragile form_. He glanced down at his own hands, pale and thin and weak, an echo of his own body that had failed him. He wondered then, if this body were real, or if it were a memory- a manufactured casing only produced because his own mind, brilliant as it was, could not conceive of himself in any other form.

_That would be a most decidedly interesting avenue to explore. _He filed the thought away until a time when he could dedicate his full concentration to such a question. For now, he knew that the yellow-eyed figure would have eyes on him, that there were more pressing things to attend to- his continued existential presence for one.

Finally, Anketil gripped the knife firmly and turned to the young girl. Objectively, he knew her to be handsome, but it meant nothing to him- not even when he were alive could it have swayed him in any manner. At a glance, he could see everything he needed to know- the smoothness under her eyes that meant she did not laugh often, bitten-off nails signifying insecurity, the re-hemming of her clothes that meant they came from older sisters or family members indicating a lack of wealth, but the ink smudges on the tips of her fingers meant she was well read, a deep scar down her leg clearly the result of a childhood mishap, and a pale and deliberate horizontal line across her wrist. In his mind, he predicted the precise spot on her body that would cause the most physical and emotional pain. He would save that spot for last.

The first time he took the knife to her skin he hesitated for a breath of a moment, then sliced deeply into her shoulder, causing the hook to hold on by torn muscle and a thread of skin. He knew the hooks would hold no matter what he did to her. Methodically, he began carving into the young girl. _Just another experiment, _he told himself. He tested how differently flesh reacted when it were still, in some sense, alive.

What the young Cardwell did not understand was that every time he sliced into skin, carved ridged lines into any of the many souls that were brought before him, he was marking his own soul. Every touch against another meant a scar upon himself- invisible, but there. Every blemish making him more scarred, more twisted, until his soul began to warp and distort itself until it would eventually no longer be recognisable as a human soul. Anketil did not register the change at first. He did not feel sympathy for the other souls any more than he had been able to connect with other people in life. Most of them had committed some disagreeable act. Others had sold their soul to a demon at a crossroads- whether for selfish or selfless reasons, it mattered not to him. What mattered was that there was an action and a consequence- that one way or another, these souls had earned their place in Hell. Only once did Anketil pool all his concentration into the question of what action of his led to his being condemned. After carefully and objectively analyzing the data he concluded that it was likely not any one action, but rather his inaction and lack of inclination to make any act towards another. Question addressed, he filed it into the vault in the back of him mind and thought nothing more of it.

No, he did not notice any change in his own demeanour or thought process. What signalled the change that occurred deep down in a place he little understood, that he was slowly but surely marring his own soul with his every action, was when he observed that his hands- pale as they were- seemed to be translucent in nature, shadowed. He angled the knife that he held so as to see his reflection and was somewhat taken aback to learn that he appeared as a mere shade, his features barely distinguishable.

It was then that Anketil finally understood what the shadowy creatures were which inhabited the torture chambers. The chambers he had never once left. They were- or at least had once been- human souls that had twisted and mutated into something else all together. They were shadows of their former selves, gnarled and loathsome and full of nothing but an all encompassing blackness.

Anketil placed a spectre hand over where his heart had once been. His logical mind knew that the heart was merely a muscle that pumped life through the body, that it was not the source of human emotion, of love. _Ridiculous human notions of fancy. _Even so, his fingers clenched slightly, digging into his chest. He supposed that the soul, if housed anywhere in the human body, would be housed at the place of central importance, where the beat of life had once thrummed.

The middle-aged man who he had been taking a saw to moaned and desperately tried to relieve the pressure of the hooks that held him in place.

He tried to discern if he felt any different, could he feel a change in himself that signified the corruption of his own soul? His nails bit into the supposed flesh, though he had long harboured serious doubts of such a reality as having a physical body. But he could find no change within himself. Inside, he felt as he always had: Empty and indifferent to the plights of those around him.

This seemed to confirm his suspicion of what had condemned him to Hell in the first place.

He relaxed his fingers and smoothed them down his chest with a slow breath- breathing being something else he suspected to be automatic but unnecessary. He placed the knife down and calmly picked up the bloodied, rusty saw and turned back to continue his work. The human body did absolutely fascinating things when you tested its limits. He ignored the look of complete and utter terror on the man's face as he turned to him.

Anketil knew what he was doing to himself, yet still he continued. With every act he was slowly turning himself into a demon, something born of death and corruptness. But this was a case of self preservation. Better to be that than one of these pathetic souls that hung skewered like pigs, squealing and squealing until they were poked dry of blood.

Perhaps after a century or two he would be able to finally leave this torture chamber.

* * *

><p>Anketil, who was once a young man but was now nothing more than a twisted echo of thing, had slightly under calculated the time it would take for his transformation to be complete. It was more than seven hundred years before the yellow-eyed shadow who had first made him the offer that allowed him to come down from the hooks returned to the chamber.<p>

Finally, after seven centuries, something different was inevitably about to happen. This dwelling, the torture chamber that he had occupied for the entirety of his time in Hell was- he was under no illusions- his own prison. That he might be able to be free of it was an enticing incentive to do anything that may be asked of him.

The yellow-eyed creature appeared behind him, in the corner of the deathly room. A sudden shift in temperature signified his presence. Anketil paused, Spanish Tickler hovering over the naked breast of a quivering, blond haired beauty, the claw-like tips of the weapon poised ready to rake across her chest shredding her pallor skin. The lethal tips pressed in just above her breastbone, the barest pressure away from piercing the skin there. Slowly, he turned to face his visitor, eyes flickering but frustratingly unable to read anything from a creature that lacked any distinguishing characteristics. The creature grinned at him, toothy and wide and completely disingenuous.

"By all means," it said in a disquietingly jovial voice, "don't stop on my account. Please, do continue." It waved its shadowed hands casually, gesturing at the woman before him.

Anketil obeyed the command and turned back to the trembling form. He pressed the Tickler down so that it bit into flesh and began the slow pull of claws that tore skin into shreds from her right shoulder, horizontally down to her left hip bone. The path was agonizingly slow, the woman screaming and curving her back in a pathetically vain attempt at escaping.

Moving up behind him in a noiseless slink, the creature seemed to hum approvingly. "You certainly are… methodical."

"The human body is capable of tolerating pains far greater than the mind can perceive. The pain threshold needs to be consistently pushed if torture methods are to remain effective," Anketil replied bluntly. If there was one thing he had learnt over the centuries, it was that no matter how close one might think they are to the very limits of what they can bare, you can always be pushed just that little bit more. It was all added to the collection of data he had locked away in his mind.

The yellow-eyed creature chuckled with amusement and gripped Anketil's shoulder, jolting it slightly as it said, "Right you are! Right you are. Oh, where have my manners gone? Here." With the snap of its fingers a double forked contraption appeared in hand. It placed it so that one of the sharp metal forks pushed into the woman's chin, the other digging into her chest and was secured around her neck with a leather strap. The creature took a step back. "There, can't leave such a lovely thing unattended to. Now, my good man," it said, using the grip on Anketil's shoulder to turn him away from the woman, " I'm sure a clear thinking man like yourself is wondering to what reason am I visiting you now, hm?"

Anketil waited a beat, "To make another deal." It wasn't a question.

Yellow eyes glinted as he smiled, disturbing and false. "Yes, very good. I'm here to offer you a new deal, much better than your current one, most assuredly." Anketil said nothing at first, but watched the creature intently, searching for any glimpse of information. After another moment he slackened his grip on the Spanish Tickler and asked,

"What are you proposing?"

"Direct, I like that! Yes, observant too, aren't you? A clever thing." The creature smacked his shoulder and leaned in conspiratorially. "I need you to do something for me. To watch someone. Nothing at all difficult, you see? Quite up your alley, I think, much suited to you. To watch, and listen. And for that, you can move out of this pit." Its fingers curled in sharply where he held Anketil, seemingly throbbing at the tips with a barely bridled power. The message was quite clear."So, what do you say?"

Even if he had had a choice, his answer would have been the same.

"It's a deal."

* * *

><p>When Anketil returned to the land of the living for the first time in over seven centuries, it was 1675 and he found himself in Ipswich, England. He was momentarily thrown to find such a staggering difference in the passage of time, but quickly calculated that a year in Hell seemed to roughly equal just one month here in the in-between. Unsurprisingly, other than a few significant advancements courtesy of the likes of names such as Newton and Leeuwenhoek, little had improved as far as he was concerned. It was still the same, dull, <em>normal<em> existence, full of trite people with their petty problems.

Still, there was something about the constant thrum of life that hummed through the streets, twisted through dark alleys, breezed through open windows that he found he only knew now that he had missed. The sense of movements, of actions and reactions, leaving tell-tale signs in their wake of a story that could be read so clearly if only people knew how to look, how to _really look_.

Unfortunately, he would not be allowed the time to take in all the titbits of information coming in at him from every angle. No, he had to find a suit.

The Yellow-eyed creature that he had learned was called Azazel, had sent him back to the upper world not for pleasure, but to perform a task. He was to find a group of people- _hunters_, Azazel had called them - who reportedly had information on a weapon that was of particular interest to the creature. Anketil had little to work with besides a name- Dermot Marcheford- and the man's last known location.

Ipswich, Suffolk. It was an old town with plenty of comings and goings and a busy port that could have easily already carried Marcheford far across the sea by now.

First, however, Anketil had been told that he would need to find himself a suit. He had not truly understood the full extent of his metamorphosis until he had learnt that upon leaving Hell he no longer existed in a physical state, but as a corporeal cloud of smoke. In order to carry out his task he had already surmised that he would need to fit in with the lower class, seem accessible but unthreatening, unassuming, but also someone who would not arouse suspicion by seemingly asking a lot of questions. With this in mind, Anketil hovered through the streets, blowing silently amidst the riverside borough until he came upon what he was looking for.

He waited in an enclosed alleyway beside a tavern, in the pouring rain. For the briefest of moments his mind flickered to his death, the crunch of bone against stone, the feeling of blood oozing from his body, but the memory was gone as quick as it came. With the patience only known to a man who could watch moulds grow for the sake of an experiment, he observed, looking for the perfect suit.

_No, too old. Too wealthy. The upturn of his pants, clearly a banker. Too hefty. The state of his hat, would be noticed if he went missing. Too small. Face has the wrong features for exuding trust-worthiness. No. No. Irrevocably not- Ah!_

_ Dress, suitably lower class. Tavern worker. Plain, non-threatening appearance. Forgettable. Clearly lives alone. Perfect._

Anticipating that he only had a small window of opportunity, Anketil gave his target only a moment upon turning into the alleyway before he did what he had been told he would be able to do. _Instinctual, it had said. _In a silent storm of black smoke, he encircled the tavern worker and in their startled scream forced his way down their throat. He felt himself fill up the empty space surely as if he were putting on a new suit, tailor-made. First he reached down to the toes, felt the sole of the shoes, felt the rain coming in through the broken material. Up the legs, thin, a little wobbly from the beer no doubt ingested on the job. To their hips, small and bruised from using them to help balance beer jugs. Then he filled up the chest, a different weight than what he was used to. Down the arms, then, to the finger tips, where he clenched his fingers slightly, trying to test his motor skills. Then finally, in to the head, the mind, where all at once he got an influx of memories that were not his own. A flower bed with cockle bells, a small house by the riverside, a graveyard at the outskirts of a gothic church, the stench of alcohol and vomit surrounded by a constant ruckus, and suddenly he knew everything he needed to know. The bar maid's name was Gennet Mugg, she was four and twenty years old and was no longer the master of her own body. Anketil felt her presence pushing at him, trying to claw back some control, but he quickly locked her away in a small corner of her own mind. After a last desperate push, she went quiet. He could not afford to be distracted. This was survival, and if doing this task meant an element of freedom for himself then he would carry it out regardless of what it required of him.

He crunched his toes in the tips of the weather worn boots, confirming his command over the body. Closing his eyes he breathed in and out calmly, taking in air for the first time in over seven centuries. Stale, chilled air that almost sent him into a coughing fit from the sheer shock of it. Once he felt in complete control he opened his eyes- a shining green- and took in his surroundings with an analytical eye. Smoothing his hands down the front of the muted brown cloth of a tavern worker, he registered differences in the feel of this body- _suit_- before he took off at a brisk walk down to the end of the alleyway, exiting out on the cobbled street into a world that was to him unfamiliar yet just the same as it always was. He felt a sensation coil in his belly, tight and urgent.

After a moment, Anketil realized what he was feeling was anticipation, the thrill of a challenge.

_Time to solve a mystery, _he thought to himself, small quirk of a smile gracing plump red lips that were not his own.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Sorry it took so long, I couldn't decided where I wanted to finish this chapter! Doing even small amounts of research for a story is fun :) The torture weapons mentioned are real creepy as weapons, the Spanish Tickler and the Heretic's Fork. Some Supernatural characters will be coming in in later chapters.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** Sherlock and Supernatural do not belong to me. No copyright infringement intended.

**Chapter Three**

Three and sixty years had passed in the world since he had walked amongst the living, felt the thrum of life echo through the streets. Although he had always felt a kind of separation from the rest of mankind, Anketil had forever been obsessed with the smallest details, the nuances in behaviour that told a man's life story. The peculiarities of society had always entertained and bemused him- social norms, preconceptions, ideologies and the like. The idea that things were the way they were just because someone before you had said it was so. All of it so illogical, the people who preached it, contradictory. Three and sixty years, over half a century, yet in the small time in which he had stepped out of the alleyway into the dark streets of Ipswich, Anketil had already observed that the manner of people had changed little. He had always preferred the night as he had found that a man's true character was revealed when he believed himself to be protected by the cover of darkness, the anonymity it could provide.

All the most interesting happenings occurred in the soft caress of nighttimes' shadow.

As it were, he ignored the barely disguised glances aimed his way as for all appearances a young woman strode confidently along the wet cobbled street, dirtied smock and mostly unkempt appearance at odds with the strong posture in her back and the way she would brazenly keep her eyes up, focused and sharp and challenging. Anketil understood that the streets at night in any given place were dangerous for a woman, but he had little fear. He could feel his own strength coiled and pulsating in the palms of his hands and the soles of his feet. In this way he knew that though he may be wearing the suit of a small, unremarkable girl, he brought with him his own inhuman strength coupled with his extensive knowledge of the vulnerability of human anatomy. It was for this reason that he moved with confidence through the streets, ignoring the illegal exchanges, solicitations and bar brawlers.

He moved with purpose, the short stride of his small frame barely tolerable in his haste. If he were to have any hope of finding this Dermot Marcheford before the man moved on- that was if he already hadn't- then he would need to act quickly.

It was with this notion in mind that he continued through the barely lit streets, eyes constantly flickering, searching. He marvelled at the fact that somehow he could access the knowledge from Gennet's memory of the street names, alleyways and shortcuts- it was very conductive to his current purpose. The very places she had taught herself to avoid, Anketil now sought out determinedly.

Finally, after some twisting and turning, he passed through a narrow walkway and came out behind a small storage building near the riverside. The building itself was dilapidated, old and wooden and far beyond its best years. Inside the building lay his quarry.

Coming along the side of the building he spotted a door, rickety and warped, and he approached it. Bending over the door curiously, he inspected the state of the hinge and lock before easily pulling the door ajar. It creaked loudly and only just managed to create enough space for the small body to squeeze through. Easing his way inside, he was struck by the smell of dust and dirt and alcohol. Blood and death mingled in the air too, but that was a smell Anketil was decidedly more familiar with. A quick glance around the dark and musty room told him he would find what he came for.

The room he had entered was nothing more than a dirt floor framed by walls that seemed but a small gust away from caving in. What had clearly once been a warehouse for storing crates of some kind was now acting as a home to the homeless, beggars and vagrants that retreated away in the dawning light as it was not as kind to them as the lady night. Anketil knew well the advantage of having such people at his disposal- their ability to move about ignored or unnoticed was indispensible to him.

He cast his eyes around the room until he sought what he was looking for, or rather, _whom_. After a glancing observation of the inhabitations of the room- nameless faces tucked away into the dark corners, huddled with ratted sheets and keeping a wary eye on him- he easily picked out his target. A man, with a thick beard and balding hair, sat slightly apart wrapped in blanket which was clearly of better quality than the rest, surrounded by odd trinkets and a small knife tucked into his belt. The man watched silently as Anketil approached him, confident stride but an ever observing eye.

"Ye 'ad better be having a good reason for being 'ere, lass" the man warned as Anketil approached, voice rough and thick with an accent. Anketil stopped before him at a distance far away enough to remain unthreatening and unthreatened, but close enough to engage directly. Then, with small hands not of his own, he pulled at the small coin purse attached to Gennet's belt and produced a coin, holding it just out of the man's reach.

"A sixpence," said Anketil in a voice unfamiliar and strange. For a moment he marvelled at the feel of his throat moving, producing sound with a real body, real flesh. That he could feel the difference was startling. "Take it," he said, holding the coin just within reach of the other. The bearded man hesitated, eyes flickering uncertainly between the coin and the strange woman's face, trying to gauge any ill-intent. Seeing no harm meant, the man licked his chapped lips and a blotchy, leathered hand snatched the offered coin. Tucking the coin into a small pouch, the man grinned up at Anketil, toothy and wild.

"What can I do ye for?"

Anketil allowed himself a brief moment of satisfaction, smirk twitching at the corners of plump lips. _So predictable._

"A man, Dermot Marcheford. Locate him or his dwellings and you will be aptly rewarded. Bring any information you may have to the tavern on Wellesley."

"Marcheford, ye say? What be he to ye, a spurned love? A thief? Bah, never ye mind. Give me a week and I'll have yer man, lass," the bearded man responded, a glint in his eye.

"You have two days," countered the demon with a dismissive wave of his hand, already turning to leave. The swell of satisfaction was becoming more difficult to maintain.

_The interconnectivity of the homeless, it is an indispensible network of information that can be easily utilized, provided you can sway their favour. _

Pushing at the wooden door, Anketil exited the dusty room out into the chilled rain. Adjusting the skirt of his tunic he took a moment to orientate himself, visualizing paths he had never walked, alleyways he had never turned down, the cobbled streets and faint street lamps until he had a mental map leading to his next destination. He exhaled deeply, misted breath dancing on the air. For the barest of moments, he tilted his face up into the rain, the cold stinging his face like needles, flashes of blood and brain matter smeared like a water painting filling his vision.

_No matter._

He faced towards the small alleyway from which he had come, and headed off, retracing his footsteps back into the shanty streets of Ipswich.

* * *

><p>For two days Anketil holed himself up in Gennet Mugg's small flat located in a less desirable part of the city. He surrounded himself with all the newspapers he could get his hands on as well as acquiring some texts he assumed to be relevant through various and not altogether lawful means. One thing he could say in the positive about Gennet was that her small-framed body was ideal for getting through small spaces. With the books, he associated himself with demon lore. With his astute observational skills he skimmed through every article, every advertisement hoping to pick up a scent of either Marcheford or these supposed 'hunters' that he was meant to be in association with. He scoffed at the trivialities and gossip that littered the papers, full of ridiculous conjectures and clearly false deductions. <em>Simpletons. <em>

He had become increasingly frustrated, however, as his research yielded not a scent, not even the whiff of a scent in the right direction. There were a few advertisements that caught his attention, short and unassuming messages that appeared to be for the purposes of a gathering at a club. Without reliable information however, there was nothing he could be absolutely certain of. Nor was there the barest hint of his quarry, much to Anketil's chagrin. His frustrations were leading him to a dark and foul mood, itching for his snuff box. In an attempt at easing his jitteriness, he had taken a knife to Gennet's mattress, stuffing and feathers flying all about him as he vented his frustration with a vicious ferocity.

He did not dwell on the fact that in the darkest corners of his mind he was imagining it were one of those pathetic, squealing souls each time he tore the knife through the bedding.

It was to his great fortune then, that at the end of the second day when he made his way to the tavern where Gennet earned her way that the man with leather hands and a weather-worn face made his presence known.

In the alleyway beside the tavern where Anketil had taken his first breaths the balding man waited, shadowed and unassuming, until he spied the disquietingly stoic woman. He shifted, intending the movement to draw attention, and uttered a harsh and whispered, "Lass".

Inwardly, Anketil bristled slightly at the word. _Something that will need to be considered upon the next selection of a suit. _ Outwardly, he maintained an air of indifference as he turned towards the bearded man.

"I expect you have what I requested?"

"Aye, I do," the man replied, hands twitching as if they were itching to hold something, eyes flickering between Anketil's borrowed face and the pouch that he knew rested on his hip, beneath his coat.

_Dull. _Anketil reaches down into the money pouch and produced another two sixpence coins, again holding them just out of reach.

"Marcheford?"

The vagabond licked his chapped lips, grimacing in half irritation, half expectation. After a few moments he let out a small huff, curling his fingers into the frayed edges of his tattered clothes.

"Marcheford's place ain't been occupied in near on a week. Something made him turn tail, word is. Left in a right hurry, only took a few things. Been in talks with a shady lot- there's this club, Tankerville- seems he was making somethin' for 'em. But now he's done an' ran off with it. To Aberdeen, is what I heard."

Anketil felt his jaw tighten, frustration barely controlled. _Scotland. So he has already moved on, then. _

"Anything else?"

The man fidgeted under Anketil's intensity, then pulled from his pocket a grubby piece of parchment.

"Marcheford's address, the Tankerville's too. And… this fellow MacLeod, a tailor in Aberdeen. Might be able to help ye find 'im, I's told. There's a ship heading that way early morn- a chance ye could catch him up."

Anketil traded the man the paper for his coins, eager to finally have a scent to chase. He could feel the anticipation coiling in his stomach, felt the thrum in his veins.

"Your services have been most satisfactory," he quipped, feeling instantly lighter in his feet. In his mind he traced the path that he would need to take to arrive at Marcheford's dwellings. "That will be all," was thrown over his shoulder as the small frame of Gennet Mugg turned from the alleyway, the conversation having fulfilled its purpose. The man lingered for a moment, gone in the next.

* * *

><p>As Anketil navigated the streets of Ipswich, he mentally recalled the bits of articles and advertisements he had read. The Tankerville Club was indeed the location of several curious meetings advertised that had caught the attention of his analytical eye. <em>Perhaps the nature of this club will cast some light upon this search. <em>First, however, he intended to investigate the home of Dermot Marcheford, to learn as much as he could about the man and this as of yet unidentified item in his possession.

By the time he reached the address that was written down in a barely legible scrawl, the city was in darkness save for the street lamps that flickered as Anketil walked beneath them. The house was a small and modest one, but tidy on the outside. As he approached the doorstep he noticed strange markings on the ground- ancient symbols he immediately recognised from the demonology and folklore books he had acquired- that were written into a circle, the lines of a star running through with each tip touching the edge. _A Devil's trap, then. _While Anketil was dubious of the effectiveness of such a thing, he was careful to move around the markings- frustratingly inhibited by Gennet's short legs. He managed to reach the door without entering the circle and put his full weight upon it to force the door open.

Entering the house, Anketil was mindful of other possible traps Marcheford may have left. He slinked about as lightly as Gennet's body would allow, taking in all the details that surrounded him. _Obsessively clean. Modest income. No wife or family. False, a younger sister. A tradesman, works with metal. Possibly a jeweller. Well read. _As he steps into what can only be Marcheford's study, his eyes widen minutely. _Paranoid._

Unlike the rest of the house, which is perfectly kept, the walls of the small study are littered with papers pinned up in an insane spider web sprawl. There are torn out newspaper articles, pages from books, sketches of what Anketil guesses to be variants of Devil's traps, papers depicting different symbols, and crude drawings of a shadowy figure repeated over and over again. He casts his eyes critically around the room and is about to step further in towards an old wooden desk placed at the back of the room when he catches a snippet of colour. Lifting his face upwards, there is another Devil's trap painted in red staring down at him from the ceiling. _Very paranoid._

There is no way for Anketil to approach the desk without entering the Devil's trap. However, he is already well read on the topic and knows all he needs to do is break the line of the circle and it will be useless. Retreating back into the hallway, he casts about for a means to break the circle. He spies a metal rod amongst a pile of tools that may perhaps be long enough for his purposes. Placing a delicate hand around the rod, Anketil is overcome by the sensory memory of wood crashing against skull. The feeling resonates through his mind, and for the briefest of moments he imagines he can feel Gennet clawing at the walls. But he tightens his grip and huffs out a breath and the feeling is gone.

Lifting the rod, he tests the length and finds that indeed, despite the shortness of Gennet's arms and legs, he can reach the ceiling with it. Satisfied, he returns to the study and with careful precision, uses the edge of the rod to scratch a line into the trap about an inch wide. It takes him some time until he is certain the line is completely cut, the paint flaked away before he replaces the rod to the ground. He hesitates a moment, then walks beneath the circle towards the desk. Upon the desk there are scattered notes and drawings, similar in nature to those on the wall but more detailed, more like designs. Anketil does not recognise a lot of the symbols, but commits them all to memory as he gathers the papers up. He pulls down everything from the walls and adds them to the pile, before jostling drawers open and rifling through their contents. More designs. _Definitely not jewellery. _Aside from the papers, Anketil pilfers three aged and musty books that, at a glance, look as though they may shed some light on the unfamiliar symbols. Gathering his spoils together, Anketil makes to leave the study. He will not acknowledge that he remains uncertain that he will be able to exit from beneath the circle, but he steps out of the radius of the Devil's trap without consequence and allows himself a moment of smug satisfaction.

_If this is all these 'hunters' have against me, I shall find this task painfully simple after all._

From Marcheford's sleeping quarters Anketil acquires a small leather satchel which he fills up with the papers and books. Though he feels that if he stays he could learn more from the absent man, an awareness of time constraints and the thought of Azazel -the yellow-eyed demon- makes him feel pressured to move with haste.

Throwing the satchel over his shoulder, Anketil exits Marcheford's quiet, unassuming house. He remembers to edge his way carefully around the circle on the doorstep, unwilling to take the chance.

It is still blessedly dark as Anketil steps back out into the cobbled streets, as he still has one place left to visit before he makes for Aberdeen.

Clutching the strap of the leather satchel, he walks briskly, invigorated. The street lamps flicker behind him as he goes.

* * *

><p>For all the confidence Anketil had felt after easily outmanoeuvring Marcheford's attempted warding, he felt his sense of control slipping away as he eyed the Tankerville Club from an acceptable distance. The building was small and nondescript; it bore no particular features that made it stand out from its surroundings- just plain brick and stone. Clearly, that was the reason it was selected. In the shanty part of town, the Tankerville appeared as just another tavern. But it hadn't taken Anketil long to notice otherwise. If it wasn't the type of patrons entering and leaving- <em>Armed. Lone individuals. Paranoid. Fighters. <em>_**Hunters**__- _then it was the clearly painted sigils and Devil's traps decorating the exterior of the building that told him whereas Marcheford had been amateurish, these people were professionals. The wards blended into the exterior, in some cases were built into the walls themselves. The lines of the Devil's traps seemed to glow to Anketil, glaringly obvious, though he assumed to the human eye they would not be seen unless one was looking for them. A quick scout of the building told him that all the entrances were lined with a grainy white substance he assumed to be salt- a curiosity he had not encountered at Marcheford's- but deduced that it must work as a barrier of some kind, much like the traps.

There was no conceivable manner in which Anketil might enter the Tankerville Club. He was beginning to regret having abandoned the homeless vagrant so early on in his inquiries.

Still, he lingered, hoping that perchance he might be able to garner a snippet or two of information. Gennet was small and forgettable, even at this time of night in the less desirable parts of town Anketil warranted barely a second glance. He observed the hunters as they came and went. If Marcheford was taking meetings here, doubtless the item they commissioned from him was for the purposes of hunting. His grip on the leather strap over his shoulder tightened. _Designs. But of what? Something metal. Definitely not jewellery. A trinket? Or? Oh. The designs, obviously. Dull. _

Satisfied that there was nothing more to be learnt here, Anketil began mentally mapping his way to the port. As he turned, he found himself face to face with one of the tavern's patrons.

"Oh, my apologies. I didn't see you there," said a man, tall and wiry and none too genuine. He held his calloused hands out in a placating gesture, a flask in one hand that sloshed and spilled. Anketil felt his body tense. Perhaps he had lingered too long. Without sparing the man a glance he made to brush past him. "Oh come now, I meant no offense!" the man said and reached out to grab Anketil's arm, pulling him back. As Anketil turned on him with a furious look and a lashing on the tip of his tongue, the man swayed and spilled the contents of his flask onto the bare skin of Anketil's arm.

A searing pain ripped through his skin and he violently jerked his arm from the hunter's grip. His eyes widened, felt like liquid, as he watched the smoke rise from his burning skin. _Holy water._

Anketil felt wild, like a rage was filling him from depths he wasn't aware existed. The hunter smirked at him cocksure and pleased with himself, having produced a knife seemingly out of nowhere. "You must be new, how about a lesson for first timers?" came the jest as the man swiped at him. There was a strength pooling at the surface of Anketil's skin, supernatural and all consuming. He easily dodged the attacks, movements light. They tussled for a moment, until the hunter managed to grab a hold of the leather bag over Anketil's shoulder and pull him forward. For the briefest of moments, he thought he felt something in the corner of his mind. _What does a scream feel like?_ He looked down to find the hunter's knife embedded deeply into his stomach, so far in that his fingers were pushing into skin.

_Oh. Ineffective. _

The knife twisted and Anketil heard the squelching of blood, but felt nothing. Coolly, he turned his gaze up from the knife to the hunter's face and caught his eye. The confident smirk faltered. Anketil's lips quirked upwards ever so slightly in return.

Feeling his strength pool at his fingertips he thrust a hand out and forcefully pushed the hunter backwards. There was so much force in the action that the man was sent flying, collided with the wall of a nearby building. His head cracked against the stone and he crumpled into a heap of skin and bones.

With a sickening tug Anketil pulled the knife from his stomach and fled, metal clanging to the ground, his hands soaked in Gennet's blood.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:**Sorry this took so long! Real life is a pain. Also, motivation. But I hope it wasn't too disappointing? In the beginning I said maybe three parts? Yeah, probably going to be at least five parts! Oops. This is completely unbeta'd so if you spot any mistakes or inconsistencies, please let me know.

Now for some actual notes. The Tankerville Club is actually a fictional Gentleman's Club used in two of Arthur Conan Doyle's _Sherlock Holmes_ short stories/novels. I'm imagining it like a Roadhouse here.

Also, I screwed up with the Hell/Earth time, it is meant to be one month equals ten years. Oops. I will go back and fix that at some point.

Do you know how hard it is to remember to write 'Anketil' and not 'Sherlock'? DO YOU?

I had the biggest freak out that Ipswich wasn't by the water but WIKI SAID IT HAD A PORT SO IT MUST BE, RIGHT? Google map'd it. Also. ABERDEEN IS NOT BY THE WATER. DAMNIT. This is the problem of being a kiwi writing about locations I have never been.

**I promise a _Supernatural_ character other than Azazel will be making their debut in the next chapter. CAN YOU GUESS WHO? I LEFT YOU CLUES. **


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